A short story about sex in Cambodia
Why that guy I slept with wasn’t worth the $20 I spent on Plan B
The view from his rooftop gym was terrible. I stood there holding my hand gently under the bar of the bench press for fear it would crush his face.
“I just want you to know that if you drop this and it smashes into you and you die, I’m wiping off my prints and leaving you here,” I said, half hoping it would actually happen.
After smoking copious amounts of awful tasting pot, we left the roof for the one-night-stand comfort of his bed. We flipped through TV channels and found a movie about people who get in a plane crash on a snowy mountain in the middle of nowhere and have to eat each other to survive.
He tells me he thinks he’s seen the film before and he just wants to watch it long enough to make sure it’s the same movie. I tell him I don’t care because I’d probably watch it if I were at home and sober, so it’s good enough for this weird situation we’re in, laying on his bed, wasted, trying to make the transition between talking and sexing, asking each other if we’d eat another person if we had to — a frozen body or one rapidly decaying in the jungle? On the television, the survivors sit in the plane wreckage, pray a Hail Mary, and then start snackin’ on some human jerky.
He held my hand down while we fucked so I wouldn’t scratch him and seemed ticked when I bit him close to his collarbone.
“I knew you’d done it,” he said as he stopped thrusting. He squinted at the TV and ran his fingers along his skin. I guess the abused look doesn’t work for everyone — especially if you’re a thirty-year-old with a “real job” as a promoter in Ibiza.
He told me about a party in Rio at a place called the KAVE where people do a bunch of K and P. Diddy sometimes shows. He swore up and down that KAVE “wasn’t his style,” but he still wasn’t pleased by the little purple bite mark I’d left on his neck.
It didn’t take long for him to forget the bruise and finish.
“These things happen,” I said.
“You’re so cool about it — so powerful,” he said.
He asked me if I’d be okay to walk home alone, like it was a bluff rather than an actual question. Red-chested and somewhat sticky, I hiked down the street for two blocks before finally paying for a taxi back to my hostel.
I spent the next hour in bed listening to some guy hock loogies on the other side of the wall next to the only small window in my room. After five rounds of tooth brushing, my mouth still tasted like bad kissing and a pack of rapidly smoked cigarettes.
I’ve only got $20 left and it’s all going to that little, pink pill in the morning.
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